Kathryn Smith (29 page)

Still smiling, she strolled through the well-lit expanse of the hall, stopping beneath Tony’s painting of Cupid and Psyche.

“Ah, Tony. If only you and I could have been so fortunate as those two.” Wryly, her lips twisted. “Not necessarily with each other, though.”

If only Tony had liked women. No, even then things might not have worked between them. If only Moira had been able to find someone for herself—someone who might have been to her what Nathaniel was to Tony. If only Tony had lived.

No. If she had found a lover and Tony had lived, then she might resent him for being what stood in the way of her being with the man she truly loved. All Tony had done by marrying her was spare her—for a few years—the heartache of loving and not being able to have that person. She would
rather go through the torment and pain of Wynthrope’s deception than resent Tony for anything. At least Tony had never led her to believe he was anything but what he projected. It was everyone else outside his immediate circle he saved that for.

A knock on the door echoed through the hall, saving her from further ruminations. Who could that be? She wasn’t expecting any callers.

Straining to hear, she listened as the door was opened. As soon as she heard Chester’s dismayed “Oh dear!” she moved into the foyer.

Her heart stopped dead in her chest. At first she noticed nothing except that Wynthrope Ryland was in her house and he was soaked to the skin, his hair clinging to his skull, his eyes wide and dark in the chilled pallor of his face.

And then she noticed that he carried a heavy bundle in his arms. Her brow knitted. Was it a person?

Wynthrope came forward, even though no one had bidden him enter. His back was slightly bowed under the weight of his burden, which, as he entered the lit hall, Moira could see was indeed a person.

She moved forward, her limbs suddenly leaden, her heartbeat a staccato pounding. She reached out with numb fingers as he stopped directly in front of her, offering the person in his arms to her for her inspection like some kind of pagan sacrifice.

Moira gave a little cry as her fingers touched the cold, wet, blond hair. She knew who it was even before she saw the pale, bloody face nestled into Wynthrope’s shoulder.

Nathaniel.

N
athaniel lay on her bed, in exactly the same position as when Wynthrope had put him there. His face would have been pale if not for the myriad bruises and streaks of blood on it. He had yet to wake, had yet to utter the barest sound. Moira sat in a chair by his head as Mr. Griggs, the physician Wynthrope collected, examined him.

“Will he recover?” Fear made her voice thin and hoarse. As much as she wanted, she could not tear her gaze away from the awful sight of Nathaniel’s face for fear that he would die while she wasn’t looking.

Griggs offered her a kindly smile as he began wiping the blood from his patient’s face with a warm, wet cloth. “I do not have the slightest doubt that he will make a full recovery.”

Relief washed over her so brutally she could have wept. “What are the extent of his injuries?”

The physician rinsed the cloth in a basin. Moira tried not to notice how crimson the water turned. “His ribs are not
broken,” he replied, wringing out the cloth, “but the bruising around that area is already significant. My guess is that he will be quite uncomfortable for several days. The cuts on his face will heal with barely a scar, but it is the swelling that will be the real issue for the next while. It will get worse before it gets better.”

Moira glanced at Nathaniel’s battered face. One eye was already swollen shut. Her poor dear friend. Who could have done such a vile thing?

It wasn’t Wynthrope, she knew that without a doubt. He may have harbored some resentment that Nathaniel refused to allow him near her, but Wynthrope was not a cruel man. Not only that, but if he had been the culprit, he wouldn’t have delivered Nathaniel to her himself. He would have left him for her to find on her own.

And he wouldn’t have looked at her with such a ravaged expression on his face, or such sympathy in his eyes. She could scarcely look at him because of the remorse in his features. He hadn’t looked this sorry when she found him with his hands in her safe. Or perhaps he had and she had simply been too hurt and angry to notice.

Could this Matthew person be to blame? Had he only been pretending to like Nathaniel, perhaps pretending to share the same preferences as well? He might be one of those gentlemen—and she used the term lightly—who despised men who seemed the least bit effeminate.

Or maybe someone had seen Nathaniel and Matthew together and attacked them both. Perhaps Matthew was somewhere badly injured as well. Good Lord, what if he was? She would send a note around to his lodgings just to be safe.

Regardless of who had done it, why had he left Nathaniel for Wynthrope to find instead of her? It didn’t make sense, unless Wynthrope had been on his way to Moira’s when he found Nathaniel. She hadn’t thought to ask where he had
found him. She had been so very terrified, she’d practically ordered him to fetch the physician immediately after he carried Nathaniel to her room. They hadn’t spoken more than a few words to each other since his return. For all she knew he had left.

At least she hoped he had left. But then, she hoped that he had stayed as well. She didn’t know what she hoped. No, that was a lie. She hoped her friend would be fine, and she hoped the bastard who hurt him rotted in hell.

Griggs had finished cleaning Nathaniel’s face, revealing features that, while swollen and bruised, were far less frightening when free of blood. His injuries were not as awful as they had first appeared, not now that the bleeding had stopped. Still, it tore at her heart to see her friend in such a state. Dear Nathaniel would never hurt anyone, and the idea of someone hurting him in such a manner was inconceivable.

She watched as the elderly doctor washed his hands before collecting a small jar from his satchel. He removed the lid and dipped his fingers into a thick salve, which he then applied to the open cuts on Nathaniel’s face.

“This will help them heal,” he told her. “I will leave this jar with you. For the next few days you will have to watch these wounds for infection. Change the bandages morning and night, wash the areas, and apply this cream with each new dressing.”

Moira took the jar with a confused frown. “Won’t all that water prevent the wounds from healing properly?”

Mr. Griggs smiled. “I know it sounds odd, but it has been my experience that wounds which are kept clean tend to heal faster. Water doesn’t harm them a bit, provided it too is clean.”

Moira nodded. A physician obviously knew more about such things than she did.

After applying bandages to Nathaniel’s face, Griggs
wiped his hands on a square of linen and replaced the lid on the jar of salve, which he left on the bedside table. “I have done all I can, Lady Aubourn. If you should require my services again, you know how to find me.”

Actually, she didn’t. Wynthrope had brought him there, not she. “Could you leave me your direction regardless, please Mr. Griggs?”

He didn’t question her reasons, but simply withdrew a small silver case from inside his coat and withdrew a card. “Here. This has all my information.”

Moira took it in cold, numb fingers. “Thank you.”

As much as she wanted to stay by Nathaniel’s side, she knew it would be rude of her not to show the physician out. The calling card she placed on the nightstand next to the jar of salve. She left one of her maids with her friend, along with a bottle of laudanum should he wake up and be in great pain, and personally escorted Griggs downstairs.

He received her profuse thanks with a warm smile, refusing to take payment. “My fee has already been paid, Lady Aubourn.”

By whom, she wanted to ask, but there was no need. Wynthrope had paid him, of that there could be no question. Why? Why do all this for her and Nathaniel when it wasn’t necessary or welcome?

No, that wasn’t true. His help was appreciated. It was his presence that was unwelcome. He had taken care of everything, no doubt to put her in his debt, or something equally as nefarious.

With Griggs gone, her first instinct was to run back upstairs and stay by Nathaniel’s side until he woke. Instead she drifted through the warmly lit hall and down the corridor to the parlor where she had sat with Minnie and Lucas. The ten minutes she had promised them had turned into two hours. They were still there, waiting for her to apprise them of
Nathaniel’s condition. Somehow she knew she would not find them alone.

She was not wrong, though the discovery both thrilled and frightened her. No, not frightened. She was not afraid of Wynthrope, even though part of her thought she ought to be. She was angered by his continued presence in her home—angered that he presumed to have the right to be there.

He sat in a winged chair near the fire, a glass of what appeared to be bourbon in his hand. She was silent in her approach, her slippers making no sound at all on the tiles. Even still, he seemed to know the exact second she entered the room. His head lifted and turned toward her, his gaze locking with hers as he finished whatever it was he was saying to the young people with him. His words were nonsensical to her ears, so loud was the roaring in them. Slowly, he rose to his feet.

He looked like hell and yet her heart still leaped at the sight of him. He was pale and drawn, his hair a disheveled mess from the rain and wind. His coat was open and she could see that his taupe-colored waistcoat had dark stains on it—blood. Nathaniel’s blood. It was on his shirt and hands as well. Had he not thought to ask for water so that he might wash?

No. She could tell that from the hollow look in his eyes. He had asked for bourbon and nothing more.

Seeing that his attention had been diverted, Minnie and Lucas turned and stood as well. Minnie hastened toward her, concern marring her pretty features.

“How is he? How is dear Nathaniel?”

Moira placed a comforting arm around her sister. It did much to soothe the discord in her own soul as well. “He will be sore when he wakes, and his face will not be so pretty for a time, but Mr. Griggs expects him to make a full recovery in a matter of days.”

The younger woman sagged in relief. “Oh, that is good news.”

Moira gave her a gentle squeeze, but her attention was on the man lounging by her fire. He tried to look so relaxed, so composed, but she could see the telltale whiteness around the knuckles of the hand holding his glass.

She kept her gaze fixed on him as she released her sister. “Minnie, would you and Mr. Scott mind giving Mr. Ryland and me some privacy? There are things I need to discuss with him.”

Her sister shot her a glance that spoke volumes. No doubt Wynthrope understood it as well. Minnie didn’t want to leave her, especially not with the man who had broken her heart. Dear Minnie. She knew nothing but what little Moira had chosen to tell her, and yet she firmly believed her sister to be the injured party.

Which of course she was.

Minnie also undoubtedly knew that she could not make a scene in front of Wynthrope and her fiancé. Reluctantly she bade Lucas to follow her to the library. He followed after her without question, but he flashed Moira a smile that was as warm as it was resolute.

“Do let me know if I can be of any assistance to you, Lady Aubourn,” he said cordially. His meaning was plain in his gaze.
Do let me know if you need me to forcibly remove Mr. Ryland from your home.

Moira returned his smile. Obviously her little sister had shared some of Moira’s tale of woe with her fiancé. Wonderful. Who else knew? All of London, no doubt. There had to be talk about the fact that the two of them hadn’t been seen in public together over the last few days. There had to have been remarks about how she had taken to staying so close to home as of late. And society had to have noticed just how ravaged Wynthrope was looking, even if he was still damnably beautiful despite it.

Once they had left, Moira closed the door behind them
and strode across the carpet on trembling legs, to stand not far from where Wynthrope sat. He raised his gaze to hers, and her heart was not immune to the pain there.

“I will leave if you like,” he told her, his voice as tired as he looked, “but I thought you might want to talk.”

Moira swallowed, gathering all her will in the hopes that she would sound somewhat normal when she spoke. Perhaps his weariness was sincere, but she wasn’t about to let him know how awful she felt, not if she could help it.

“What happened?” Even with all her efforts, she still ended up sounding as though she had some kind of blockage in her throat.

He took a swallow of bourbon before shaking his head. “I do not know. I was at North and Octavia’s for the evening celebrating the news that Blythe is with child.”

How lovely for Blythe! This little tidbit was as welcome as Minnie’s betrothal when paired with all the awfulness of tonight and the previous few days.

“Please give them my felicitations.” She meant it, but even that good news could not take away from the terrible tragedy of the evening. “Then what happened?”

He shot her an unreadable glance before continuing, “I left for home. When I got there I found Nathaniel on the steps. I immediately thought to bring him to you.”

“Why?” Why her? “Why not take him into your home? Or to Mr. Griggs?”

“Because you love him, and I knew you would want to be with him.” He took another drink. “And because I have no frigging idea where he lives.”

A few days ago she might have smiled at that, but her lips seemed incapable of such expression now. “Do you have any idea why he went to your home and not here?”

Wynthrope sighed. It was a pensive rather than wistful sound. “I do not believe he went willingly.”

Fear jolted Moira’s nerves. She had suspected as much, but to have him agree with her hunch unsettled her. “You think he was deliberately left for you to find?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

Her brow furrowed. There was something he wasn’t telling her, then the awful realization came to her. “You know who did this?”

Another nod as he rubbed his eyes. “Not the man who is physically responsible, but the man who made it happen, yes.”

A hot, sick feeling churned in her stomach. “The people you work for, they did this.”

He was as ashen as a marble statue. “I presume so.”

“Why?” Disbelief and shock drove her to lean on the chair opposite him, one hand pressed against her belly to quell the rolling there. “You and Nathaniel are hardly friends.”

Wynthrope met her gaze with dark, despairing eyes. “No, but you and he are.”

If it were possible for a person to literally freeze from fear, Moira would have done it at that exact moment. “It was a warning.”

“Yes.”

“For you.” Her tongue felt thick and awkward in her mouth. “Because you failed to bring them the tiara.”

His lips thinned. “Yes.”

She laughed, harsh and discordant. “What next, they come after me?”

“Or Minerva.”

The shock of being right was nothing compared to the rage that shot through her at the mention of her sister’s name. “If anyone harms my sister I will kill them.”

He seemed unimpressed by her resolve. “How can you kill what you do not know?”

Her gaze narrowed. “You know who they are.”

He shook his head. Never had she seen him look so defeated. “I know who one of them is. I do not know who he is working with.”

That was not good enough. “But you are in contact with this man.”

“Yes, but I will not tell you his name just so you can go and do something foolish like get yourself hurt.” He tossed back the remainder of his bourbon and set the glass on the floor beside his chair.

Frustration tightened her fingers into fists. Anger gave her strength. “You tell them that if anyone else I love is injured, I will personally destroy that damn tiara.”

A spark of admiration lit the deep blue depths of his eyes. For a moment, he looked like the Wynthrope she had adored. “That is what I love about you, Moira. You look so fragile, but you’ve a spine of iron.”

What he
loved
about her? It was a little late for that, was it not?

“Do not flatter me, Mr. Ryland. My friend is badly hurt and it is all your fault.” Her words were harsh, but she wanted him to deny the accusation. She wanted to fight about it.